


Dismembered Duets

by I_prefer_the_term_antihero



Series: Prompts From Tumblr [4]
Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Backstory, Brother-Sister Relationships, Dismemberment, During Canon, Family, Friends to Enemies, Friendship, Gen, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Pre-Canon, Prompt Fill, Sibling Bonding, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:35:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26244271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_prefer_the_term_antihero/pseuds/I_prefer_the_term_antihero
Summary: "I've been considering things that begin with the letter 'M.' 'Moron', 'mutiny', 'murder', 'malice'..." |These nightmares won't leave Oswald alone...maybe that's because he knows they're real, or at least will be some day.(Written for the prompt "Oswald has a nightmare about executing Lacie and she comforts him?")
Relationships: Glen Bakserville | Oswald Baskerville & Jack Vessalius, Glen Baskerville | Oswald Baskerville & Lacie Baskerville
Series: Prompts From Tumblr [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1908031
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Music, Mirrors, Maiming, and Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a prompt given to me by [@el-of-the-daleys](https://el-of-the-daleys.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!!! Here's the link to the original post!!
> 
> I love getting prompts, and Pandora Hearts is my favorite series, so if you want me to write something for Lacie and/or Oswald, Pandora Hearts, (or anything really!), I'd be delighted!! Don't hesitate to drop one in the comments below, or in my [ask box on tumblr](https://antihero-writings.tumblr.com/ask)!!
> 
> I actually am planning on adding to this fic something that wasn't in/is a little different from the prompt for the second chapter, haha!!  
> Since I wrote a scene fitting this prompt in ["The Things He Left Unsaid"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21679366)\--(actually that scene is why I was given this prompt, as far as I know!)--I wanted to go somewhere different with the scene this time. I started writing it...but it ended up being _too_ different, and not actually fitting the prompt XD So I had to go back and write something that fit the original prompt, haha!! Don't get me wrong, I really like this chapter, I think it turned out really nice!! But I still liked what I originally wrote too, and think it takes it in a creative direction, and fits as a second chapter, so I plan on doing just that and adding it as a second chapter!!
> 
> I'd really appreciate if you could leave me a comment and let me know if you enjoyed this!! They really do motivate me to keep writing, and make my entire week!!

A song cut through the moment. Each note a twinkling, golden light falling about the atmosphere. 

His sister was dancing in her room. A purple butterfly fluttering about her garden, bringing life to all the flowers around her. Her song. Her dance. Sheer wonderful absurdity, pollinating this black and white world.

And the puppets smiled in reply. 

He wanted to join her, to dance and sing too…But something was keeping him back. Something physical, or something spiritual, he wasn’t sure. 

A beautiful, gentle melody to sing him to sleep …Yet, as she continued, he found there was something dark, distorted, something…perhaps a little _mad_ within it;

The harmony, every few seconds would cut with a dissonant note, like a misstep on the piano. An error of the foot. 

As she kept going, the song, the dance, sped up, and the lapses became more frequent, though she didn’t seem to notice; just kept dancing as if this was all part of the plan.

And when the notes slipped, reality would crack. Or, more accurately, the cracks in the world—that is to say the chains holding reality together—would bleed into his vision.

He wanted to join her. To take her hands and twirl her around. Be her brother, her protector and confidant, in that beautiful insanity. To feel it too; for the notes to tickle his arms, wire his movements, to take root in him, to know what she felt as her voice rang and ran out. 

He knew he shouldn’t. He surely couldn’t. The dance was not his. Not his to join. Not his to take and taint. 

Still, he couldn’t just stand on the sidelines.

Oswald took a step forward. 

A chain unlatched. A chain he didn’t even know was there. The sound wrapped around her right wrist, keeping her hand in place. She hung her head, looking at him, a smile etched on her features that—like the music—was just a little bit mad. 

His mouth opened in horror. He took another step forward, this time to try to help her, to untie the chain—

With a loud clank a new chain wrapped around her left wrist, hanging her other hand in place. 

“ _Lacie!_ ” he cried, and decided taking it slow was the problem; he ran as fast as he could to her. 

That only made everything happen in seconds: a chain around one leg, then the other, and her body flew upwards like her partner in the dance was lifting her into the air, and he knew they weren’t going to let her back down…

—(Was _he_ her partner? Why were his movements chaining her? He didn’t _want this_ )—

The next pierced her abdomen, and another through her chest, one through her leg instead of around it—blood flocking to each in turn—and the last, wrapped around her neck, though it didn’t slice through it.

By the time he arrived at her side it was too late. As he stood below, she hung there, her blood dripping onto his cheeks like the first drops of an intense rain. 

But she didn’t yell or scream, or cry, or even ask what was happening. It was like she knew this was going to happen from the start. That smile stayed on her face, and it was more than a little mad now. An almost-maimed beautiful thing on her brother’s lonely, metal strings.

He stared up at her in horror, those violet eyes shimmering, pooling with red. He wanted to scream and cry, to run for help, to say something, _anything at all_ , but no words came to him, none would adequately do the job, so silence was his pick of poison. 

As the blood dripped onto him, instead of falling to the ground, it trickled and slithered onto his back—as if it was a living snake, with a mind of its own—and dove beneath his skin. 

He cried out and pain, falling to his knees as knives jammed into his back. He didn’t even know where he was, what he was doing, or _who_ he was for that matter—

—Was he Oswald; Lacie’s brother, who wrote songs in his spare time? Or was he Glen, without a second to spare, in charge of the whole goddamn world?—

When the pain subsided, sense and memory returned. He tried to lift his arm, to get up, to help his sister—she _needed_ his help—

But his hand was too heavy to lift—

No, not his hand...for what he saw raise feebly in its place was a blackened claw…with the other end of the chain resting in its grasp. 

He gasped, let go. But as it clattered to the ground, the tiles began to give way, all converging on the spot, collapsing beneath him. But before he could fall into the void something gripped his ankles and lifted him up until he was hanging upside down beside her, a fly caught in this twisted web, waiting for the spider to devour him. 

An ugly sound reverberated around him, like a bubbling cauldron full of the worst poisons. It took a moment for him to realize it was Lacie laughing. 

He jerked his head to look at her, to see her face, his sister’s beautiful face, twisted into a dollish, painted sneer. 

No, it couldn’t be her laugh. Her laugh was the sound of butterfly wing beats on summer days, her laugh was the sound of a brook in spring, the wind rushing through the leaves in autumn, the fire crackling in winter—

She reached out and wrapped one of the chains around her arm, and pulled hard, enough that her brother, on the other end, was lifted up by the ankles until he was hanging upside down in front of the mirror on the mantelpiece.

Something told him not to look. Something very sensible. He listened: shut his eyes tight, refusing to look, to see it.

But he heard giggling to his side, a giggling that got closer, and soon he felt the dolls crawl over him. He tried to shake them off, but two made their way onto his head. They put their tiny porcelain hands on his eyelids and pried his eyes open, as Lacie whispered softly, 

“You can’t look away from this, nii-sama.”

He almost yelped in shock. 

It was him…but not him. A twisted, grotesque version of himself. His expression was marred with drops of red, like clawmarks across his handsome face. Speaking of claws, his hands had turned into the blackened, talons of beasts, and they were bloody. 

And, worst of all, black as the night sky on a starless evening, four, great, feathered wings had erupted from his back, so big they obscured much of the room from view. 

Was this him? No. It couldn’t be…Certainly not. What could have caused this? …How long had he been like this?

“If you wanted to play, Glen,” said that demented smile, the words no longer soft, “you could have just asked.”

And the puppets laughed in reply—

—(All except the black rabbit, who looked altogether too sad to join in)—

The toys climbed onto the chain holding him up, and jumped up and down on it as if it were a trampoline snickering as it started yanking him back and forth. 

“Wait!” he yelled when he realized, too late, what was about to happen. 

And as he swung into the mirror, cued by the sound of shattering glass only in his mind—

The sweet chorus of reality came in.

A twenty-year-old Oswald shot up in bed, his shirt sticking to his chest with sweat, his violet eyes piercing the dark like spears, trying to hunt something far from this room, all the while trying to temper his breath, his heartbeat, his dismay, to keep his prey from noticing his presence…and failing. 

He’d been dealing with these sorts of sleep-induced traumas as long as he could remember—(No, calling them nightmares didn’t quite cover it). 

Sleep was meant to be peace, but, spending so much time controlling his reactions, pacifying his hopes, his fears, when he relinquished his control to the night it could only bring all those pesky little humanities to the surface. 

Knowing one day you’ll be sending your sister into nonexistence isn’t exactly a lullaby. 

Knowing one day he’d be someone else, Glen, in charge of the world, and unallowed to deal with such human things as nightmares, unable to run to any sort of guardian for comfort from the demons didn’t help them go away today. 

His breath remained heavy on his chest, feeling too warm and too cold at the same time.

The room was far too small.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed, marching out the door without a second thought, or changing his nightclothes. 

Fresh air was what he needed. An escape from this oppressive place. 

The nightmare echoed like a resounding gong throughout his head, its images repeating, its emotions resounding.

No, he couldn’t let this consume him. 

After all. It would all be real some day.

He didn’t know how fast he was moving; if he was walking calmly, or running, but at some point he found air. The world outside smelled like daffodils and peace. The courtyard, it was once called, in some time far from now. At last he allowed himself to pause, take a deep breath—

And he heard singing. 

He froze, his eyes widening. 

He waited, sure this was just an addendum to the nightmare, that before long the notes would slip, become that mad melody…but they didn’t. They remained the gentle tone of a true, sane song. One of his own compositions, if he recalled. 

He let the music pull him slowly along like a lifeline to a ship, until he saw Lacie in the middle of the courtyard, twirling around in her white nightdress, singing without a care in the world.

Of _course_ she was up at fifteen in the morning singing. What normal person would be?

She dipped and swayed like a bird in the air. 

He didn’t dare take a step forward. Didn’t dare try to join her. From the sidelines he interrupted; 

“What are you doing up?” 

“Asks my brother, who’s wandering around in his nightclothes.” She didn’t miss a beat, and continued dancing, despite the halt in music. 

“Who could sleep with you singing like this?” He folded his arms. 

She grinned, and it was that playful, mischievous—but still sane—thing. “I’ve only been singing for a few minutes, and your room’s on the other side of the manor. You can’t possibly have heard me.”

He didn’t reply, only looked away. 

“Having trouble sleeping, Ni-sama?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“ _Please_. You think I don’t know my brother well enough to know he doesn’t stroll around at midnight for fun?” 

He rolled his eyes. 

“Soo, my dear brother had a widdle nightmare.”

“ _Stop._ ” He said like the word itself would force her to obey.

“Ahh so a nightmare about _me._ ” There was no hint of fear, or inclination of obedience in her.

His eyes widened. 

“The usual, I presume?” She may well have been talking about what he wanted to order for breakfast.

He looked down and spoke softly. “…Yes.” 

She walked up to him, and without warning, lunged for his hand.

“What are you doing?” He ripped it away, holding it up high. 

“Dance with me.” She looked up at him with puppy dog eyes, resting her head on his chest, the grin on her face lined with mischief.

His eyes lidded. He pushed her away, before folding his arms over his chest; keeping them behind bars.

No. He shouldn’t. Besides, he didn’t want to; he wasn’t any good at dancing anyways. He’d just step on her toes, or worse. 

She tugged on his arm, trying to free it from its bind. 

“Pweease?”

He looked away, not budging. 

This dance belonged to her. His part was merely the song—a song to which he never wrote lyrics. It wasn’t his place to dance to it. Only admire from a distance. 

He didn’t want to chain her. 

“Preeeeetty please?” She blinked girlishly. “What if I promised to do something for you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Will you clean your room?”

She pouted. “…Fine.”

He allowed his hand pardon. 

She snatched it before he could give a caveat, or even try to protest. Her skin was cold against his sweaty fingers…but not an unwelcome cold. It was the kind of cold that was gentle, that could bring him back to reality. 

The wind rushed by as she pulled him along, until they were beneath the colonnade, where the air was cooler, and fireflies were blinking in and out of focus. 

He was pretty sure this was what it would feel like to be taken away by the fae folk.

Upon arriving, she stopped abruptly—(he almost ran into her)—and held out her other hand. He rolled his eyes before accepting it. Grinning, she began to pull him along into the moves, putting one hand on his back, and the other on his shoulder. 

“You’re leading?” He frowned.

“I’d be pleased to follow your lead,”—she took a step forward, and he stepped on her toe, causing a smirk to spread across her features—“But something tells me you’re not up to the task.”

He glowered at her.

The notes spilling from her mouth as they swayed and spun back and forth, traveling through the pathways in the colonnade. …He stepped on her toes a number of times.

“You’re so stiff, nii-sama,” she noted. “You just need to loosen up.”

“Maybe I’m stiff because my sister is forcing me to dance against my will.”

She sighed fakely. “I guess my room will just have to remain a pigsty.”

He tried to loosen up.

Lacie didn’t continue the music for a moment, simply looked through the columns into the sky. “The stars are beautiful. It’s like they’re waving at us.”

He cast his gaze there too. 

The sky was calm, the air fresh…it was hard to remain anxious out here, holding his sister’s hand.

“Yes.” He replied absentmindedly, then paused before speaking, “You never actually answered my question.”

She grinned slyly. “‘What am I doing up?’…Let’s just say you’re not the only one who the demons have an affection for.”


	2. Motive, Mutilation, Mind, and Must

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m never quite sure how to rate/put warnings on my fics but tw: dismemberment/nightmare violence in this chapter

The nightmare was the same. His sister, chained by his every move. A cacophony of laughter.

But the mirror did not shatter this time as he swung into it. Nor did he slam into it, or wake up. He went right through it as if thrown into an upright plane of water. 

When he entered he didn’t swing back into Lacie’s room, nor come crashing to the ground on the other side. 

On the other side there was another chain wrapped around his wrist, the tension tethering him to his place in the air.

Lacie was nowhere to be found and Jack was standing below him, holding the chain, and the world was drenched in fire and blood. 

Hanging beside Jack, like sandbags behind the stage, were four different chains. The one he was currently holding was attached to Oswald’s wrist, and when he followed the others he saw they were around his other arm, his leg—(while the other ankle was still chained to the other room through the mirror)—and wings, chaining each of his limbs like Lacie once was, though none went through him.

“Well hello Glen.” Jack smiled that same golden smile he always did; the same species of mad smile Lacie gave him, but with an entirely different madness. “If you wanted to play you could have just asked.”

A pitcher full of sorrow and rage poured into him at the sight of his friend. 

Jack gave a hard tug on one of the chains, and a searing pain shot through his back.  
Oswald cried out as—severed slowly, like paper ripping— 

His wings were lying on the smoldering carpet. 

“ _Why are you doing this, Jack?!_ ” Glen spat, sweat dripping down his face as the flames grew ever closer, altogether too hungry. 

Jack smiled, entirely unbothered, and moved to the next chain, pulling hard, and Oswald’s arm was wrenched from his body. 

After a fair dose of screaming, he hung limp from one side, blood draining from his empty shoulder onto the smoking carpet. 

“As always,” Jack answered simply, “I’m doing everything for Lacie.”

Oswald looked up at him, his eyes wide, violet waters rippling with horror, pain, and pity.

Those cursed, twisted words. 

Pain seared through him, like needles, and daggers, and bullets, blood mixing with the sweat dripping down onto his face…and he supposed this was justice.

Next his leg, sending him swinging, as if on a sick fairgrounds ride ride couldn’t get off.

And all the while Jack _smiled_. Like they were having a pleasant conversation. Like he came over for tea. 

“Glen-sama!” A tiny voice rang out, and Oswald froze. 

He thought he was well acquainted with horror. But the sound of Gilbert’s voice was horror far more than any bloodshed. 

“Gilbert, _STOP_!” Any attempts to break free from the chains proved futile, painful, and humiliating. 

But before he even had the chance to heed his Master’s word, Jack dragged his sword across the child’s back as easy as if he were drawing a picture, and Oswald’s little valet was lying on the floor painted red. 

“ _How could you do this—?!_ ” The words were coughed up blood and, as his gaze fell, saw that there was now a chain running through his stomach—such pain running through him he could barely even recognize when a new one was introduced..

When he turned back to Jack he saw a Chain looming behind him. One from the Abyss. A Chain that seemed…vaguely familiar. A Chain that looked altogether too sad.

Ever that smile. “I’d like you to meet my Chain, Oz.” 

Oz. 

Oz. That half stolen name…Or maybe just borrowed. It didn’t matter. The rest of the name had stopped belonging to him the moment he killed his sister. 

Oz was a Rabbit. Oz was huge. Oz was stained in blood. Oz, he knew, belonged to that girl in the tower—the one with his sister’s blood running through her veins. 

And Oz was crying. 

Glen’s head was lying on the checkerboard floor. 

Oswald woke with a gasp. 

But when he did it wasn’t sweaty and sleepless on his bed. 

He wasn’t even in his body. 

The thing that was gasping was something akin to the soul, tortured and shared within a space with two others.

Were they the same after all?

“Bad dream?” Glen-sama—Levi— grinned like there was nothing more entertaining than his anguish, like this life, this death was a game, and there was no such thing as purgatory.

Oswald cast his gaze across the “room” to see Leo in the center, curled up, hugging his knees, the only thing that betrayed his fear, his tears, the ripples in the water. 

Glen really shouldn’t be so cruel to him. Leo had lost his best friend, after all. 

Oswald knew what that felt like. 

“No,” Glen muttered simply as he stood, stepping across the plane, ripples gathering at his feet as he stepped up behind Leo.

Leo didn’t even look up as Glen covered him in his cloak. 

No. These nightmares were real.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, artists, let me know if you'd be interested in drawing cover art for this fic!! I'd especially love to see art of that scene where he's hanging in front of the mirror...
> 
> Might edit that last section...I feel like the action needs to be embellished on. 
> 
> Again, please don't hesitate to comment, and/or give me prompts!! <3 <3


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